Friday, 9 September 2011

It’s like waking up to discover snow fell through the night. The pristine beauty of that white blanket, indiscriminate in its veiling of path and road and flower bed. Opening the front door, hoping you’re the first, that no foul footprint mars the beauty. Pause, take it in, step. Refusing to turn, you enjoy the crunch and squeak of powder underfoot, all the while knowing the damage that lays in your wake. And you’re happy and you’re sad; if damage is to be done, at least it be done by you. The moment ends as you leave your road, greeted by the dirty slush of those before you; accept the inevitable and look skyward, fresh snowfall again becomes your desire.

This is how I feel as that mug of Pilsner Urquell is chaperoned across the bar. When it comes to beer, nothing is more beautiful. A golden, hazy body; hiding behind a gossamer-film of condensation. That head; foam that defines foam, thick and dense like double cream with a bitter sting. Its peak arriving as the tap is closed. Pause, take it in, sip. It’s immediately perfect.

You don’t feel it yet, but it’s in the post. That’s for sure. Enveloped by that perfect moment, until the jarring sound of glass against table – like the rattle of a letterbox – forces you back into reality, forces you to accept the inevitable. Shamefully you survey the damage, seeking console in the delicate lace that lays behind. It’s not enough, spoiled goods the beauty lost, for nothing compares to that first perfect sip.

Visiting Pilsner Urquell a few weeks ago inspired this post. I was just in awe of how beautiful the first sip of a PU is, how nothing compares and how you immediately want a fresh pour afterwards. The post is a bit different to normal, but I think it's good to challenge yourself from time to time, to write something completely different, in a way that you don't feel completely comfortable with.